7.1.2011

My machine

Minä aloitan koskettamalla sieluani.

Some days I wonder if I've made a terrible, irreversible mistake by stubbornly patching this heart o' mine onto my sleeve. I've recently had far too many lessons in close succession on the cold ways of people not to at least allow myself to entertain such a thought. As said, I enter each situation with good intentions and a relatively clear conscience and, in my ever so eloquently gullible fashion, expect this primus motor to fuel the interaction on both sides.

This unpretentious, wide-eyed frame of mind is not only two steps away from complete lunacy, but also translates into a pattern in which I offer people a measure of trust, faith and devotion that far exceeds how much they should be entitled to and how much they're willing to part with in exchange. I should know better, but somehow it's just too easy to forget myself and the lessons of yesterday. I cannot comprehend that they are simply worth less, right up to the prickly point when it smacks me sideways as an afterthought. In essence I give more than I could ever hope to receive, yet this bleak truth eludes me to the umpth degree. You know what that spells on my forehead?

"Target."

I get attached to people. My senses become imbued by the aura of another, my emotions thoroughly entangled in the scenery of their flesh. My ears ring with the sound of their laughter and all I want to do is rise to the occasion to be their hero when the sun sets behind us. Whether or not the person in my head should ever be awarded even a taste of such burning ambitions is wholly irrelevant; what sums them up as a human being becomes so completely lost in the web of my passion and imagination even I have trouble identifying where the imaginarium meets true flesh.

A veil is pulled over my eyes and the poetry of the heart begins to echo from a lonesome stage in front of a thousandfold crowd of my would-be's, never-were's and other thorns under my bed. The way I feel towards those special someones is monstrously heavy on impact; it is known to have crushed a great many things under its weight. At its best a powerful, nurturing force driving me to excel. At its worst a beast of overburden sucking the joy from each waking second.

That's what I do. That's how I roll, in spite of the danger. In spite of every single warning light flashing in tandem in the back of my mind. It's truly laughable how helpless I can be upon streams of my own creation. That's how my operating system works in all its sad, disfunctional glory. Should I attempt to exert a level of control or moderation, my equilibrium goes kaput faster than you can blink. There is no middle ground. I can't help it. If I have to turn everything off by force and will, the only route I know is to turn subzero. Works in theory, rarely in practice. If ever.

No matter how hard I try, I can never forget the sour aftertaste of these horrifying maelstroms of blood, beauty and illusion. Others might characterize them with more tender terms. Infatuation, attachment, pick your poison. They have all turned out to be costly mistakes. Each and every one. I find myself knee-deep in affection without equal response, tied down to a fucking-up-a-thon that seems to accelerate with every move I make. I expend all kinds of energy trying to untie the rope slowly tightening around my neck, aimlessly darting around the fractured halls bathed in darkness within, in a vain effort to find a source of light, warmth or air. The only voice answering my call is my own, reminding me that I alone tread here.

The alternative isn't all that appealing, as I remember vividly what I let myself become the last time I grew disillusioned with the humanity that fills my view and whispers ugly truths in my ear during twilight hours. This was many years ago, but I refuse to let myself forget it. I can only imagine how I made others feel, but I could wager a guess or two (though I'd rather not). The point is I remember what a bastard stared back at me in the mirror.

Let's face it: I was a complete and utter prick, breaking people left and right, never giving a moment's thought to who I hurt and how - at least not until those realities found me alone and attacked me at my weakest. My ice-clad sentiments were embodied first and foremost in the ways I conducted myself in the company of the person next to me at the time. I broke her slowly by overpowering her senses with a neverending shouting match of contradicting words and actions. I controlled and manipulated her as much with my absence as my presence. It was never my intent, but I toyed with her without compassion or mercy just to watch her bleed.

The final realization of how efficiently I'd broken her heart made me turn into an even worse excuse for a man. Hating one's self taints every thought, word and motion in ways I can never describe.

And so here I am yet again, pushed and pulled in different directions by different women, re-learning bloodcurdling lessons on the nature of selfish and carefree actions in the face of unbridled honesty I can only describe as childlike. My lungs expel a dry laugh as I realize I'm the one whose muscles and joints will be strained to the breaking point by this tug of war. Not theirs.

I'm not looking for validation, I don't think I'm even looking for someone to hold close. Perhaps what I truly seek, then, is no more than the comfort of knowing I'm not pissing these emotions into the wind every time I allow them to take flight. As aspirations go, I'd say that's not exactly a tall order.

The sad, naked fact is I don't handle rejection well. To be honest, I can't handle it at all. It's not all about ego, but I certainly know the value of what I offer and how completely it diminishes my view of another when it's spat back at me without a care in the world. It fills my mind with hurtful, vengeful thoughts and reminds me of what I am capable of. Sometimes it severs the reigns of control and I become a very scary individual. You wouldn't want to meet that guy, no more than I would ever want him to be let loose. Not for a minute or an hour.

What time has offered me, though, is perspective on what kind of a horrid wretch I can be should I allow myself the journey to such extremes. So I refuse. Vehemently and arms wide open. Without question. For better or worse, this heart must withstand these stabs and endure the bloodletting of seething wounds for as long as necessary without growing cold. This is the pact I've made.